Hoodwinked

I've been contemplating a lie all morning. Not a big lie, nothing that would hurt anyone, just an artful bending of the truth. It wouldn't be the first time I've lied, though I think I'm an honest person in general. What's stopping me is why I want to lie. I wouldn't gain anything from it, other than a perverse sense of satisfaction and a neatness to the general order of things. (I do like things to be tidy.) In the end, though, it seems stupid and far too trivial to waste my dishonesty on. I need to save up my lies for when I truly need them.

And I don't know why I'm getting all philosophical all of a sudden, but it occurs to me that I'm a firm believer in lies -- that is, there is place for them in everyone's life, a necessary place. I interviewed a writer last month, and she talked about the importance of honesty in your writing. And as a reader, I know that's true. I tried to apply that to real life, however, and things came out a bit differently than I expected. She seemed honest and true in real life, too, and I wondered why I wasn't more that way, why all of us aren't more honest -- and I don't mean we're all liars, just that we cover so much of our selves, we use so much subterfuge to hide who we are, what we really think. Maybe it is a lie, this public self. Maybe it's just an alternate version of the truth. Maybe that's okay. Maybe that's necessary.